It just goes to show

My yesterday was crap-tacular. I mean. It really stunk it up. It was the kind of day that made you quote Office Space and say, "Somebody's got a case of the Mondays." And that somebody was me.
At first I thought it was because I'm working the early shift and just wasn't at the top of my game.
But the crappiness of the day continued into the night. The topper on the crappy cake was when I sucked up my necklace in the vacuum at the car washing place by the gym.
It's this beautiful opal and diamond necklace my parents bought me for Christmas, and I love it.
It was in the cup holder because it had gotten caught up in my iPod in my gym bag. And before I knew it -- whoosh it was gone.
I tried not to overreact.
I left a note on the back of my business card. And low and behold, this morning this jovial sounding man called to verify which vacuum I used. He called back a few minutes later and said he had it for me.
It just goes to show. Mondays = bad. Tuesdays = good.
(Even though work isn't too much better today.)

Where there's smoke...

I was really proud of myself when I quit smoking something like 15 years ago.

I'm not a quitter... in the sense that I seem to willingly latch onto unhealthy habits -- drinking too much, eating too much, gossiping too much, spending too much.

But smoking I dropped like a bad habit, hehehehehe. Get it? Bad habit?!

But at this particular moment. This one right here. At 2:51 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon, I wish I could smoke without consequence.
I'm not feeling especially well. I'm bored. Sleepy. And don't like the stories I'm working on. This would be a perfect time to go outside and take a breather (a breather involving unhealthy air, I guess).
So I type all this knowing that I really don't want to smoke. But I wish it was acceptable to take a non-smoking break. A time when us non-smokers can walk outside and chat for 5 or 10 minutes just to break up the monotony... kind of like the old days at the LTN. When we took super long coffee breaks or brief walks around the block. Those were the days. Kind of.

Not a good swirly

One of the reporters at my work is writing a story about a bullying incident.
This high school freshman was tied up, dragged into a bathroom stall and left there for a short period of time. There are all sorts of rumors of some really bad stuff happening to the kid while he was bound by hoodies, but the family denies those accounts.
Needless to say, many conversations have popped up in the news room about this incident and bullying in general.
A photographer asked if the kid got swirlied. A reporter says, "A what?"
Apparently a swirly is when the bully and/or bullies puts the kid's head in the toilet and flushes it. The photographer went on to give hand motions to show how the technique is performed and added in that a handicapped bathroom is better because of space issues.
Bullying completely and totally pisses me off.
I was never physically assaulted or even threatened as a kid, but I got my fair share of teasing and it was terrible and humiliating. But I can't imagine the fear of having my eyes covered, mouth gagged and hands bound behind my back by bullies. How terrifying!
And some of the online commenters on the newspaper website have had the nerve to defend the two dorks who did it saying they were just having fun.
If these two guys find this activity fun, I'm afraid of what they do to have a blast.
I'm glad that some girls told teachers and the boys got suspended. I'm glad that they got arrested. They need a harsh dose of reality. And the online commenters supporting the out-of-line juveniles need to realize that this type of behavior can lead to more heinous crimes in the future.
So there!

Weight and wine

I love wine.
I've given up beer and try not to drink the hard stuff too often. But wine. Oh wine. How I adore thee.

Despite my love affair with wine, I'm losing weight. This is not a fluke. Of course, I had surgery... but let me say. Surgery doesn't do it all. Surgery helps, yes. But I reached a plateau more than 20 lbs ago. And it's still possible to over eat, take in too many calories and sit on my butt. This behavior will have the same result that it always has... weight gain and possibly some self loathing.
I got on the scale this morning and was thrilled. 74 lbs.
Did you get that? I SAID 74 LBS!
I'm in disbelief. Today is my six month anniversary of my surgery. I have no regrets except possibly that I didn't do it sooner.
I want to keep on this trek. So many milestones are in sight, and I even bought a new (new to me) dress that I want to wear to Sarah's wedding. It doesn't fit yet... but it will. oh yes, it will.

Jungle Love

Music helps me write.
Just about every time I start a new story at work, I put on my headphones and enter the sound-proof chamber.
I learned back at the LTN how valuable music and a set of headphones can be. I worked right next to an old hippie reporter guy who loved the sound of his own voice. I, on the other hand, hated the sound of his raspy smoker's voice.
I embraced the practice of listening to CDs on my computer with headphones so that I could block him out and concentrate on the task at hand.
That routine has been quite handy working in a larger news room with even more conversations going on that I can't help but listen to.
Over the years I discovered the wonders of Pandora and Yahoo! Music for my listening pleasure.
Most days when I put on my headphones I'm getting down to business. I typically listen to a few of the same channels: Adult Alternative, Pop, Country, Coffeehouse.
But yesterday I made a radical decision. I've been a grumpy pants all week at work so I decided to change things up in an effort to hoist me out of my rut.

I put on the 80s. And it worked! I wrote lots of stories and pepped right up.
Now, I can get burned out on the 80s but it seems this week called for those old tunes (the ones that remind me of school, my old Ford and friends whose faces I haven't seen in decades). So I went with it and put the car stereo on the 80s station on my way to work this morning.
It was fabulous! I relived my teen years riding down the highway in my Kia.
Tears for Fears
Billy Idol
Kim Carnes
Pat Benetar
It was a great drive to work - all except for the 18-wheeler that scared the crap out of me as I tried to merge onto the interstate. But some Jungle Love helped me shake off that experience pretty quickly.

Bathroom inspector

My mom teased me for years about my bathroom inspections.
In fact, if I brought it up today, I'm sure she'd chuckle.
Ever since I was a little girl old enough to go to the bathroom on my own, I felt it necessary to come out and report on the conditions. Was it clean? Did it have good-smelling soap? Was it crowded? Was there a sitting room?
I was reminded of my former bathroom reports today when I went to the work bathroom. Our facilities in the newsroom are pretty good. There are four stalls. Someone comes in and cleans them... mmm... I think every day.
All was well until there was a water heater issue. There was leaking and a loss of hot water. Suddenly a sign was stuck on the bathroom door and work guys started walking in and out of the newsroom and the bathroom for days.
Every once in a while the restroom would open back up for business but there was still no hot water.
I finally had to resort to taking the long walk to the bathrooms by advertising. These trips resulted in a few conclusions.

There are a lot of women over there. You never get a moment alone in there!
The floors are dirty. There are often pieces of toilet paper strewn about, and I think it's smaller over there.
I did not enjoy the week of displacement. Not one bit.
Thankfully, things are back in order this week. There is hot water, clean floors and solitude :).
These things may not seem important until they're not there.
Oh, I also realized that I'm still a bathroom reporter. Not only because of my desire to post this entry, but because of a stop me and the husband made last week on our way home from Raleigh.
We stopped at a mall and we both had to go.
I went into this tiny bathroom with one stall. It was FREEZING! There was no lighting over the toilet. The water was cold. I couldn't conduct business in such shabby conditions so I left.
As I was telling The Mister about my experience, he chimed in that his was the same.
I then realized that he didn't think it was worth mentioning. But me? The original bathroom reporter? I was on duty and ready to inform.

Lovable Lincolnton

When the Downtown Development Association decided on the slogan Lovable Lincolnton, I thought it was pretty cheesy. Let's call a spade a spade. It is cheesy. But I was feeling the lovableness of Lincolnton Sunday (and thought Valentine's Day would be a good time to throw it out there).
This isn't the greatest story ever told, but I'm going to tell it.
I met up with one of my two favorite redheads for coffee. A not-so-lovable element of Lincoln living is that lots of businesses are closed on Sundays, including two different coffee shops that we attempted to visit. So, McDonald's it was.
I haven't darkened the door of a McDonald's in quite some time. And I didn't eat there so don't look at me like that. I got an ice coffee with skim milk and sugar-free flavoring, thank you very much. It was yummy. But that's not my point. I'm getting there. You know how I tell stories.
I'm in line waiting for the right time to settle into a booth and do some catching up when I hear, "Mommy!" I look and my daughter is in the restaurant with a couple of friends and a mom. We start talking about how funny it was that we ran into each other. Then I look at a neighboring table and there's my father! Neither my daughter nor my father noticed the other was there.
We did lots of laughing and greeting, then I got to sit down to visit with my gal pal. I look past her and see one of my daughter's friends going through the drive-thru. He's got a big grin and is waving at me.
A little later my daughter's boyfriend and his father jog past.
There are times I crave and relish in anonymity. There are other times I bask in the smallness of my little town and getting smiles and friendly waves every which way while merely going out for a cup of coffee.

Dirty Diana

I'm not much of a nickname girl. Maybe it's because for the first 13 years of my life everyone knew me only by a nickname. That's right. You've all heard it. DeeDee.
That was the name I learned to write. It was on all my notebooks. People sometimes called me Dee - which was extremely odd years later when I discovered that was my stepdaughter's nickname.
Anyway, I shed the nickname when we moved to Charlotte when I was 13. It was at this time that I pictured the older me. The successful business woman me being called DeeDee. The Superior Court judge me with DeeDee on her name plate. The 60 year old me possibly lacking respectability because of my name.
So, I decided I would become Diane.
Diane is my middle name. I was named after my loving aunt who died of cancer when I was too young to remember her. I'm told she loved me like I was her own. She loved to babysit me and tell people that I was hers. She was a beautiful blonde.
My first name, Dorothy, was given to me in honor of my grandmother. Oddly, I was really never close to her. She was a hot, partying redhead who liked to drink, smoke and play cards. I feel she would be someone I would've wanted to be friends with in another circumstance.
So Dorothy Diane became DeeDee for more than a decade.
These days, I'm straight up Diane. A few people call me by nicknames. Dee and DeeDee have stuck with some. My friend Carla gave me a nickname back when I was 16 that she still uses when I call her up - Dirty Diana.
I was not a "dirty" teen so don't get the wrong idea. But you know. Michael Jackson sang the song and it was catchy.

I thought of my nickname yesterday when I was out working on a story. I was at a shooting range writing about guns. (Well, getting material for the story. I still haven't written it. I'm supposed to be writing it right now actually.)
For the first 30 minutes I was the only woman there. Lots of guys kept coming in. They would buy boxes of bullets then go into the room with the targets and start firing. There were all sorts of targets. Some with shapes. Others with animals. The ever popular person silouette. There were some funny ones for sale that no one bought while I was there. One with a guy who had a turbin on. Another alien-looking dude.
So I'm not a gun person, but I got a little excited when the manager offered to let me shoot. He showed me the tiny bullets he was going to let me use. I saw the ear muff things and the safety glasses. I started getting anxious and antsy.
I started picturing myself as a type of female Dirty Harry. Yeah. Dirty Diana firing off some rounds.
Turns out, the manager was all sorts of busy and I got tired of waiting.
So I took a raincheck.
I hope to invoke my inner Dirty Diana in the future. But you can call me Diane.

Guilty!

I am sitting in a little dark room. The only window has little lines in it and on the other side is courtroom 4C. This is where the action is in the Gaston County Courthouse, if you ask me.
I'm actually thrilled to be in this little room. This room has comfortable chairs. This room has my computer. And I'm free to use my computer and phone in this room. This room is quiet except the noise you can hear from the hallway and the opening and closing of the door to the men's bathroom.
The room I'm looking at through the window, however, is a different story.
That room is all formal. Everything is made of wood - including the pews that get sooooo uncomfortable after a number of hours let alone several days.
In that room men wear suits and everyone calls each other Ms. So And So and Mr. This And That. Deputies shoot you the evil eye if you misbehave and don't hesitate to take your phone away if it makes a noise.
I, of course, know the rules. So instead I typically am greeted by the deputies with a "good morning, Diane" or perhaps a wink. I like this.
In the courtroom, I feel a bit like a sick voyeur. I know I'm there to do my job, but still. I watch what goes on between the attorneys, the judge, the jurors and the defendant. I also glance at members of the audience and scribble in my notebook from time to time.

Every once in a while I react... often unintentionally. But stunning things are said from that witness stand.
I'm not really a voyeur in life. I've found that I often miss things that other people catch.
For instance, the friendliest convenience store owner in the world - who has sadly vanished from Lincolnton who I suspect is living in Charlotte with his wife and many children. I saw him multiple times a week for months and never realized he was missing fingers. How does that happen? (Really, how did he lose those fingers? And how did I not notice when he made change and handed me my items.)
Thankfully, I think I'm observant when it counts. I try to read my friends' emotions and react accordingly. I pay attention to what my daughter does and says. And I work hard.
And court. It just happens to be one of my favorite parts of my job. :)

Just one of those days

You know what I think is worse than having one of those days? Having one of those days despite your intent to not have one.
I woke up this morning ready for the day. I had already picked out my clothes and packed my workout clothes. Once dressed, I realized that my pre-picked out outfit didn't really match at all. So I had to go through two others to get it right.
I made it out the door with my lunch, vitamins, computer, workout gear, purse, tea and a bag of trash to put at the curb. I thought, "Man, I've got it together today!"
Despite getting up early and leaving early, I only got to work about 15 minutes earlier than usual - thanks back-to-work-after-a-three-day-weekend traffic (and by three-day-weekend, I mean for everyone else, not me).
Work is OK today, I've just been in a real dry spell for stories. But it's the personal crap that keeps f-ing up my day.
Bank account issues.
Marital drama.
Kid melodrama.
I'm still trying to dig up stories, do phone interviews and be all professional, but sometimes I struggle to keep my own life separate. I can certainly see why moms of multiple children have stayed home rather than worked throughout the ages. I love work. I love my work. But it's a juggling act.
Anyhoo, I wanted to spend a few minutes venting silently at my desk after a scrumptious baked potato with butter and sour cream. Oh! Did I mention that I gained a pound even though I worked out like a beast last night? Grrrrrrrrrrr.
I don't care. I'm still going to cycling class tonight. This day be damned!
One more thing. This day made me think of the old Monica song. I'm putting a portion of the lyrics here and intend to youtube it so I can listen and feel that the young Monica identifies with the not-so-young me.

It's just one of those days that a girl goes through
When I'm angry inside,
Don't wanna take it out on you.
Just one of them things.
Don't take it personal.
I just wanna be all alone
And I you think I treat you wrong.
Don't take it personal
Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.
Don't take it personal.

I sit and think about everything we do,
And I find myself in misery and that ain't cool.
Hey now I really wanna be with you the whole way through.
But the way you make me feel inside leaves me confused.
As I swing back mood to mood it's not because of you.
I never want you to be insecure,
So won't you understand that I'm only in love, youre the only I need.
I be there for you when you need me boy so baby don't you leave.

It's just one of those days
That a girl goes through
When I'm angry inside,
Don't wanna take it out on you.
It's just one of them things
Don't take it personal.
I just wanna be all alone
And I you think I treat you wrong.
It's just one of those days
That a girl goes through
When I'm angry inside,
I don't wanna take it out on you
It's just one of them things
Don't take it personal.
I just wanna be all alone
And I you think I treat you wrong.
Don't take it personal

Fortunate one

Ever feel like the fortunate ones?
It's easy for me to fall into a self induced pity party about things just as much as the next gal. But then you get those glimpses of other people's lives that make you feel fortunate.
As a news reporter I get those a lot. As a news reporter in a bit of a rut, I haven't had a glimpse lately. But as a driver, I saw one last week that for some reason stuck out to me.
I was driving into work. I was stopped on the exit ramp getting onto New Hope when I decided to look around at my surroundings. I spotted this guy walking down the street. Now mind you it was about 30 degrees tops. Ice still on the ground from the weather. He's wearing a pair of blue scrubs, has a bandaged arm and is carrying paperwork.
I tried to think of what this guy's circumstance must be. He clearly wasn't a hospital employee so I'm guessing something terrible happened to his clothes that made him need a donated set of scrubs.
What happened to his arm?
Are there prescriptions in that stack of what I assume is hospital paperwork?
He sure needs a coat... and a ride.
No, I didn't turn right instead of left and give him a ride. I'm not one of those people. I'm one of these people. One who wonders what that guy's deal is. One who feels bad for the scrubs-wearing guy but doesn't do anything to actually assist him. One who continues to think about that guy practically a week later. And one who feels fortunate to think that if something tragic happened tomorrow, I would have clothes and a ride home from the hospital.

Skinny Minnie

Diets can be excruciating. I should know. I'm an expert on dieting.
"But you have always been overweight, Diane," you might say if you were being brutally honest with me.
And I would say, "EXACTLY, my rude friend."
But yeah. Those of us who have always battled with our weight know a lot about dieting. I've lost hundreds of pounds over the course of 30 years.
The most fun I ever had dieting was several years back when I worked at the Lincolnton paper. That's right. I said fun and dieting in the same sentence. I've decided that it was my support system that made it so much more enjoyable.
I would go to Weight Watchers meetings with my mom each week and get support from my friends/coworkers five days a week or more. Me and the work gals all subscribed to different dieting techniques, but we ate lunch together and attended work functions together which made it so much easier to be accountable and make the right decisions. Hell, we even split a Snickers bar three ways once!
Since striking out into another county for a job, I haven't had the same level of hands-on support. I know my friends and family still want me to succeed, but they're not watching me, or working out with me, or going to meetings with me.
I gained lots of weight over the past several years. And now I'm losing it. Again.
Since surgery, I've gotten lots of supportive feedback but it still feels like a journey I'm mostly on alone. And that's OK. There are times it's not bad to be independent. I'd have to say I'm a fan of independence.
I still really miss the days with all my girlfriends at the old paper, but everyone has moved on and we're all in different places. I'm thrilled that we're all still friends and I hope to be one skinny minnie by the next time we all reunite (which is feeling like a date in May when a certain someone is getting hitched!).

Not quite the queen

It's been quite an eventful past few days.
Saturday was the celebration of my husband's birth. This was a big to-do (a) because he was turning 40 and (b) because I planned a surprise party.

So I've decided I'm not the queen of the surprise party. I kind of thought I was. But I was mistaken.
I planned this big shindig that included a giant cake, a lengthy guest list, balloons, gallons of chili and the list goes on. The plan also included a moment where I tricked the husband into going to the Parish House that was secretly filled with family and friends all of whom would jump in the air and yell SURPRISE when he walked in the door.
This did not happen.
The secret celebration was extremely hard to pull off. The husband who never plans anything decided to plan his own birthday celebration. He invited our friends to a night on the town - I had already invited said-friends to the real celebration. I had to go around sending messages and explaining the confusion. My busy husband also called ahead to make dinner reservations that I would have to go back and cancel.
But the final bust came when there was a SNAFU reserving the Parish House. The night before the big party I found out that we didn't actually have the building reserved. (I found this out after I had already decorated the joint and locked myself out of the building in the process.)
In the end, I called in a favor, got a room at the Cultural Center, let the husband in on the secret and had a fabulous time.
Sunday we celebrated again because it was the actual birthday. We had tasty seafood and waited for the snow to fall.
It fell.
And fell.
And fell.
Then the ice fell. And froze and froze and froze.
I spent two days working from home in sweatpants and on the couch. It was glorious.
But I also spent that time eating and moving as little as possible.
So today I'm all dressed up... trying to find some stories to write... and excited about going out with one of my girlfriends tonight. And I am totallllyyy thankful we never lost power.
Amen.